|Was there ever message sweeter
Than that one from Malvern Hill,
From a grim old fellow,-you remember?
Dying in the dark at Malvern Hill.
With his rough face turned a little,
On, a heap of scarlet sand,
They found him, just within the thicket,
With a picture in his hand,With a stained and crumpled picture
Of a woman’s aged face;
Yet there seemed to leap a wild entreaty,
Young and living-tender-from the face
When they flashed the lantern on it,
Gilding all the purple shade,
And stooped to raise him softly,
That’s my mother, sir,” he said.
“Tell her”-but he wandered, slipping
just as he was drifting from them,
Ah, I wonder if the red feet
Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward (1844-1911)